The Happy Treatment
Chapter 8

I didn’t brush my hair this morning, or put on makeup, or really get dressed besides throw on a bra and some shoes and sadly some different pants that have to be in the dress code for school. I didn’t even wake up this morning, it feels like. I’m in school, walking down the hallways to my locker with everything around me seeming blurry. Why couldn’t Eva at least have gotten the procedure on a Friday instead of Thursday, I think to myself. Today was Friday at least, and I can spend the weekend staring at the wall.

School has never felt more useless than it does right now. Everything feels useless. Eva’s not next to me in my English class, and I’m not mentally present enough to know what we’re discussing or taking notes on. I don’t have notes out on my desk while everyone else does. Everyone’s voice sounds distant and fuzzy. Eventually when the bell rings for the next class I gather what little items I carry with me and attempt to walk out the door when Ms. Borland stops me.

“Cindy, wait,” she says. I almost don’t hear her. I stop and walk over to her desk. She leans in close, like teachers do when they want to talk about something serious. “I noticed you didn’t take notes today. Is everything okay?”

I nod. She continues looking at me as if she’s expecting more.

“Eva got the Happy Mind treatment,” I say. I feel too tired to make a fake excuse.

Ms. Borland sits up and sighs as if in relief. “Oh,” she sighs, “well congrats to her. I’m sure you miss not having her in this class but I’ve had tons of students and friends get that treatment. They’re usually recovered enough from surgery to leave the hospital after a few days. I’m sure Eva will be back soon.”

I suddenly fully understand Zophie with her insulting remarks she throws at her Happy neighbors. I would respond to Ms. Borland, but I don’t have the energy. I walk out and continue to my next class, then my next, until I make it to science class, the last class of the day. Of course, of all the days we’re put into partners for a lab.

“Cindy,” I hear as I walk to my assigned lab table. I look up from the floor to see Iris.

Ugh, I groan.

“Got yesterday’s notes from someone else, in case you cared,” she snaps with annoyance in her voice.

“I didn’t,” I say as I grudgingly plop my binders on the table.

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it, I just needed notes,” Iris says innocently.

“And I just needed a ride,” I murmured, even though it turned out I didn’t need one after all.

Iris scoffed. I was picking a fight as useless as yesterday’s notes, but Iris was annoying, and she was the last person I needed to have as a lab partner today. After everything yesterday, anything as small as the problem of not having notes seems so pointless.

Everything seems so pointless now, and Iris was only reminding me of that. She was reminding me of the world we live in where small, pointless distractions often contain our focus more than what is actually going on.

I rest my elbows on the table and let out a heavy sigh.

I should’ve paid more attention, I thought to myself, starting to get lost in my mind again. I think about the past few days, past few weeks, and even months, wondering what it was that I didn’t notice about Eva that I should have.

Fuck, don’t start crying, not here, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Cindy,” I hear Iris’s voice next to me, “Come on, can we just get this done? At least go get the beakers or do something,” the word “something” being heavily emphasized in her annoyed voice.

I did the minimum amount of work required for the rest of the lab, and Iris continued to be clearly annoyed with every pathetic but passing work I did, but all I could care about was eventually getting out of here and going home.

Finally I’m released from my last class by the bell and I pack my stuff as Iris does the same. I glance over at her and catch a glimpse of her arms, seeing the usual cuts and scars I’ve realized I’m too used to seeing.

Incredibly annoying or not, I’m reminded that that’s not all she is.

I open my binder and search through the small pockets, remembering Mom put a mini sample of healing cream and bandaids somewhere inside at the beginning of the school year, which I never cared enough to use. I eventually find it and catch Iris before she gathers her stuff and leaves the table.

“Here,” I say awkwardly as I hand her the packet. She grabs it and looks at it with confusion on her face.

“What’s this for?” She asks, her expression debating whether to be confused, offended, annoyed, or all three.

“Helps them heal better,” I barely gesture towards her arms, yet she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Th- thank you,” she looks at me cautiously, as if she’s not sure whether to still be annoyed by me or not. She probably won’t use it, but I notice her face soften slightly at the gesture.

As she grabs her things and walks out, her usual walk is an annoyed stride as if she’s annoyed by everyone and everything, but I notice she doesn’t do that this time. She walks calmer than usual.

I head to my locker to pack up my things in my backpack. Everything around me starts to be blurry and feel distant again, yet one thing succeeds in catching my attention. Ryker stands at his locker, loading his backpack like the rest. I haven’t talked to Ryker throughout all these months of taking medication from him through Eva and hearing his name from Eva’s mouth more in the earlier months. I feel broken, and I don’t know what I’m searching for or why I feel my legs walking towards him, but I don’t bother to stop them. I’ve heard his name a lot, and Eva has talked about what they do sometimes when they hang out, like scrolling through social media or hearing him talk about his big, annoying dog, in Eva’s words. I find myself feeling a sort of connection, a pull that’s forcing me towards him, as if hearing so much about him in the past months makes me feel closer to Eva being closer to him.

I make it to him, and I don’t know what to say for a moment.

“Ryker?” I finally say, my voice sounding hoarse. He turns and waits for a follow-up, looking at me with seemingly depressed brown eyes and uncombed brown, curly hair.

“Um,” I say awkwardly, “I’m Cindy, Eva’s friend.”

“Oh!” he says enthusiastically, “Yes, Eva has mentioned you quite a few times! I’ve seen you around but haven’t gotten to really meet you yet.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say. He seems like he’s having a good day, and I feel a little bad for bringing my depressive self over to talk to him for reasons I don’t even know why. “Have you heard from her?” I ask.

“Nope!” he says, and I wait for more, but he doesn’t say anything else. I look at him in confusion. “Did she tell you she got the Happy treatment?”

“Oh, she did?” he says excitedly, “Wow, wonderful! Great for her!”

I’m caught off guard by his dramatic cheeriness, and I feel disappointment spread through my body. “Have - have you gotten the Happy treatment?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” he says, “I got it about a year ago and I’ve felt great since then! Are you thinking of getting it?”

I’m at a loss for words, and I don’t know what to say. “Eva never told me you were… Happy.” I say.

He laughs, “Well, here I am!”

The connection I felt that pulled me toward him a moment ago is lost, and it has been replaced by a force that pushes me to get as far away from him as possible. I begin to walk away without any sort of farewell, then I turn back, with a thought that has popped in my head.

“Wait,” I say, taking a step back to him, “so your family’s a pill pocketing family yet you don’t even take medication? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Pill pocketing?” he says with a confused smile. A confused expression fills my face. “... Yeeeah,” I say, “you know, the pills you gave Eva?”

Ryker laughs with a bit of confusion, “Ha! You’re funny, Cindy. This is a joke right?” The uncomfortable smile still sits on his face.

I start to feel frustration run through me. I’m too tired to deal with this. “Man, come on. I’m not going to snitch on your family or anything. Eva told me you gave her those pills and she gave some to me since I was depressed and needed some too. I’ve wanted to thank you for a while but I didn’t want to freak you out that I knew or anything.”

“Cindy,” Ryker says with an uncomfortable, sympathetic smile this time, “I’m not a pill pocketer.”

I groan in frustration, “So if I were to go to your house right now and check where Eva said she found your stash, I wouldn’t find anything?” I say accusingly.

Ryker’s eyes light up too dramatically, “You’re welcome over anytime!”

“Fuck no, I’m not actually going to your house. I’m screwed up enough from talking to people like you!” I say, disgusted.

“Well you’re welcome anytime!” Ryker says again, as if he’s a record stuck on repeat. I walk away, not looking back this time.

:) :) :)

I spent the weekend doing exactly what I predicted: sitting and staring at the wall. I never text or call Eva, who’s still recovering in the hospital, and I never receive a text or call from her. Zophie and I haven’t spoken either since our traumatic phone call. Mom has been in and out of my room to check on me and grab me to sit at the table with her for breakfast, lunch and dinner, since she’s off work on the weekend. She’s stayed patient through my grieving process, lightly suggesting maybe sending Eva a text every once in a while or even Zophie, which I can’t work up the strength to do. I scroll through my texts with Eva and read through a few conversations. I read the deep conversations we’d have late at night so often. I read through our confessions of us opening up to each other, like the time Eva mentioned how she knows her stepmom gives her a lot of money for almost whatever she asks for so that she’ll be left alone, and how it seems her dad never listens. I read through my confessions as well, how I know it’s hard for me to trust and how I sometimes wonder what it’d be like if my dad never went through what he went through and took his own life. We have a lot of these, a lot of opening-up sessions and deep conversations, the kind of conversations you only have with people you trust, which I’m afraid to admit I did trust her.

I don’t want to lose that.

I don’t want this illusion to go away. Seeing the texts how they are now, I want to keep them that way. I don’t want them to become lost in the past with new, meaningless texts replacing them. I don’t want to have to scroll through the texts to search for the realness and care that used to be. I want that to stay right here, where I can open our texts and instantly see those conversations, as if they happened just last night.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I’ve told Mom when she’s suggested texting Eva, “but I just can’t,” and that’s all I’ve managed to say. She sat on my bed next to me and lightly rubbed my back.

“I still scroll through the texts with your father and I,” she admitted sympathetically, “Sometimes I still want to send texts to his phone, but I’d hate to open my phone later and see my own texts sent from the present, only pushing the past I miss further down. I know the feeling of wanting to keep them how they are.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “But Eva is still here, Cindy. She may be harder to find now when you see her, but I’m sure the Eva you know is still in there somewhere. I hope you’ll try to visit her soon.”

I know I should visit her, but I know as soon as I do, the image I have of her in my head will be pushed down to the past like our texts. The sweet, caring image I have of her, of my best and closest friend, will be gone.

I just want to hold on to that image of her for as long as I can until I’m forced to eventually face reality.

:) :) :)

Monday comes and I’m forced out of bed to make it to school again. I’m at least grateful I can take Mom’s car today, so I can drive in silence and not be bothered like I would be on the school bus. I find myself mentally preparing for the false image I have of Eva to become torn apart soon, since Mom announced Eva gets out of the hospital tomorrow and will be able to go home and rest there. She had been talking to Mr. Straus asking how Eva has been doing for me, since I have still yet to work up the strength to text Eva or any of her family members myself.

I briefly mentioned the conversation I had with Ryker on Friday this morning to her before heading off to school, commenting how I’m dreading the fact I might see him again today.

“Maybe you should hang out with him, Honey,” Mom had said.

“Why? I thought you hated when people got that treatment.”

“Of course I hate it. It changes people for the worse, but maybe talking more to Ryker first could be a sort of practice and preparation for when you go and talk to Eva.”

“How do I even do that? You can’t talk to them, not really.”

Mom sighed, “They’re still people, Cindy,” she paused trying to find the right words, “just lost people. I think they’re still hurting on the inside, if you ask me. They just don’t have the emotions to actually show it anymore. I really think talking to Ryker would help you better prepare for talking to Eva, even if you feel like it’s not real talking, but small talk. Maybe you could find a way to get it back to real talk.”

I sighed and gave her a hug goodbye before leaving for school. The day in school was another blurr, and I had almost forgotten about the conversation I had with Mom about Ryker towards the end of the day until I saw him packing up at his locker again. I passed him, feeling no intention of talking to him again, even with the conversation Mom and I had this morning. I feel this action being the wrong choice with knowing Mom is right about having to prepare to talk to Eva eventually, but I just want to avoid this situation for a little longer, even if I know I’ll regret this later. I struggle with finding my keys in my backpack as I search and walk to my car at the same time. I slowly make my way through the school parking lot and eventually reach my car, stopping abruptly to put my full focus on digging through my unorganized backpack. I finally pull my keys out only to drop them on the pavement from someone bumping into me, and I turn around to see the very person I avoided a moment ago, Ryker Terrafino.

“Ryker!” I say, startled.

“Cindy!” He says excitedly, “Sorry about that!” He picks up my keys and hands them back to me. “You were a little hidden between our cars bent over looking through that backpack, I didn’t see you!”

I look over to the car parked next to me, now realizing it belonged to Ryker. He had reversed in while I had simply pulled into the parking space, making our car doors on the driver’s side right next to each other. Of course, I think to myself, this is just my luck.

My phone dings and I glance down to see Mom, saying she’ll be home a little late, and I’m reminded once again of the conversation I had with her this morning. She’ll be working late, which means I’ll have more time at the house alone. Alone with my thoughts, with nothing else. I sigh heavily, looking at Ryker and his stupid smile. His features would be attractive if he wasn’t so annoying.

“Fine!” I groan, “I’ll go to your house, Ryker, like I mentioned Friday.”

“Oh, o-okay!” Ryker says, not caring that I’ve just invited myself over, “Do you need my address?”

“No, I’ll just follow your car,” I say, slightly hoping that maybe our cars will get separated through a red light on the way.

“Okay, I’ll see you there then.” We quickly exchanged phone numbers. Then he hops in his car and waits a moment for me to get in mine and pull out, then he drives off, and I drive after him.

“Ugh, what am I doing,” I say aloud to myself in the car as I follow after the person I was trying to avoid a few minutes ago.

We make it to his house, and I park next to his mailbox. His house is a bit small, but nice and seems well-kept. His parents must not have the treatment, I think to myself as I think back to the depressing yards most people had in Eva’s neighborhood. This yard has at least a few bushes that are decently trimmed and green.

“Here we are!” Ryker says as we climb out of our cars. We walked inside and I don’t know what I was expecting, but it looks like a normal house. While it may be normal for the rest of the country to enter houses of Happy people, since the treatment is so common, I don’t talk to many people, and this isn’t something that’s normal for me.

There are family pictures hanging up, the carpet seems to be freshly vacuumed, and the walls of the hallway we walk down are painted a soft white.

“Ryker,” a voice calls, “Who’d you bring home this time?”

I look over to see a woman wrapping up the cord on a vacuum in the living room.

“Hey Mom, this is Eva’s friend, Cindy,” Ryker answers.

“Hi Cindy, I’m Mrs. Terrafino,” Ryker’s mom says, turned towards me. “I just always have to ask. He lets just anyone in the house now. He’s always so happy and trusting it’s almost too much!” She laughs like a nervous mom who wasn’t expecting company. I nod and try my hardest to smile.

Ryker walks down the hall to his room as if he’s forgotten about me and I hurry after him, looking around for any signs of pill pocketing throughout the house.

“Ryker,” I called loud enough for him to hear me but not his mom, “You’re not going to your room yet,” I said assertively, “you’re showing me where the bathroom is.”

I remember Eva mentioning trying to find the bathroom then opening the wrong door in this house and discovering all the medications. Ryker stops right outside his room and walks me over a few feet to the bathroom door. “Ah,” I say more to myself than him, “so your little stash has to be around this area.”

“Stash?” Ryker says with his confused smile.

“Of your pills,” I say.

“Oh! You still think we’re pill pocketers. You’re crazy, Cindy!” He laughs.

“I know you are, Ryker,” I say, opening doors around the bathroom. I get to one more door and I give an I-knew-you-were-a-pill-pocketer look a little too soon. I open the door and see nothing but towels and wash rags.

“What?” I say, disappointedly and confused. I turn around and face him, “Where are they?”

“I’ve told you, Cindy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I need pills if I’m happy!”

“Pill pocketers don’t keep all the pills for themselves, you know that. Everyone knows that!” I say as I mess up the family’s perfectly folded towels, searching through them with the chance that the stash may be hidden behind them.

“Cindy, Cindy!” Ryker says cheerfully, “Why do you feel so convinced we’re pill pocketers again?”

I turn around and face him. “Because!” I say, “Eva told me you were. She gave me medication and said she got it from you!” I feel frustrated.

“Maybe there could have been a misunderstanding. Eva and I have never even talked about medication or stuff like that. We never needed to, because I’m all better now!”

I sigh heavily in frustration and confusion. “This just doesn’t make sense though.”

“It makes perfect sense! I’m happy and doing great, so I don’t have a need to get medication or give others medication. I mean really, have you ever heard of a pill pocketer who’s Happy?”

“No, no,” I shake my head, “I mean that Eva would lie to me. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Ah, well maybe you could ask her that when you see her again! Then you’ll be fine!” His voice was extra cheerful and chirpy in that sentence, as if he had just solved my problem.

Ryker turns after a moment of silence and finally makes it to his room and throws off his shoes. I follow him, feeling the urge to tell him I’m leaving now, now that I know there’s nothing here for me. Once I reach his room however, I’m caught off guard. His room is practically empty, having no personality or anything that could represent a hobby laying around. It’s almost as if he’s just moved here, and like there should be boxes sitting out somewhere, ready to be unpacked with all his belongings, but no boxes sit in his room. The only piece of decoration or really anything that’s in his room is a small picture frame hanging on the plain white wall of a seemingly random tree, as if to pathetically add a pretend form of life to the room. The room feels cold, and it reminds me of a hospital room.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I ask.

Ryker laughs, “I get that question a lot!”

I wait for him to continue, but he simply sits on his bed and gives me that smile that makes me uncomfortable.

“You don’t have any books or a computer or anything? Just a bed, dresser…” I look around for anything else to say, “and a little desk with nothing but homework on it? Do you have another room or something?”

“Nope,” he answers simply and leaves it at that.

“What’s the tree picture for? Kinda random.”

Ryker shows the first bit of emotion that doesn’t seem fake for barely a second. “I don’t know,” he says with genuine confusion, “No one’s ever asked me that. I just remember I begged to have it in my room at one point.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, “Are your parents neat freaks?” I stand in front of the picture and study it, looking for something special about it and finding nothing.

A voice down the hall interrupts my analyzing. “Don’t let him out!” Mrs. Terrafino calls, “Ryker has company over, he’ll jump and go crazy!”

I hear footsteps and claws running down the hallway and growing louder. Ryker laughs, “Brace yourself, Cindy!”

“What?” I say, but it’s too late for an answer. A massive black lab crashes into Ryker’s room and nearly knocks me down. He jumps up and excitedly shoves me with his front paws without warning, pushing me into the picture of the tree that is now on the ground with the picture frame cracked.

“Oliver’s coming in there, watch out!” Mrs. Terrafino shouts from down the hall. Ryker grabs Oliver by the collar and pulls him back. “Oliver, get down!” He says, “My dad must’ve let him inside.”

“It’s okay,” I say, dusting dog prints off my shirt. Once Ryker gets Oliver to calm down, I feel safe enough to bend down and pick up the broken picture frame without getting knocked over again. “Sorry about your single decoration,” I say, holding the frame in my hands. I turn the frame over to find the hook to hang it back up and a piece of paper sticks taped to the back.

“What’s this?” I ask Ryker and hold up the back of the frame to him. Ryker stops petting Oliver and stares in confusion. I tear the paper off and discover it’s not just one paper, but multiple all folded up together. Some are notes, some articles, and some pictures of Ryker with other people. I gather them all in my hand and sit on the bed with him, laying them out for both of us to see. Everything is related to the Happy treatment. Small articles with headlines such as “The Happy Mind Treatment: is it Really a Treatment?” and “The Treatment that Destroys You.” Notes that begin with “Dear Ryker” and end with “-Ryker” that he must have written himself. I briefly read the shortest one that only possesses two words, saying in all capital letters “WAKE UP.”

I look up at Ryker, and I’m satisfied to see his stupid smile is now gone, and he stares blankly and concerningly at everything I’ve dumped on his bed.

“Ryker?” I ask with sympathy and concern, “What is all this?”

He pauses for a moment, a glimpse of realness spreads through his eyes for only a moment. Then recognition hits his expression, “Oh!” He says, “I think I remember these now! I completely forgot about these.”

“What are they?” I ask.

“That’s why I must’ve begged to keep this picture in my room and not everything else.”

“Did you not want the Happy treatment?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he looks at the ceiling trying to remember, “Yeah! Now I remember, I was soooo against the treatment. All these people here -” he picks up the pictures of him with others, “they got the treatment and I never talked to them again. Some killed themselves though, but I mostly remember the ones with the treatment. I thought they were so different, I hated it.”

“Wow,” I whisper. He talks so lightly and cheerfully, it’s disturbing.

“You don’t seem like you hate it now,” I comment.

“Oh, no. I love it! I’m so happy now. Way happier than I was before!”

“Okay, just back up for a second. What happened, Ryker? Why did I find these?”

“I was just a little nervous about getting the treatment, so I wrote myself some notes I think. The other things like the articles - I got those from over time whenever I’d find them since there weren’t many negative ones about the treatment, cause - you know - they aren’t allowed to be published in most places.”

“So what? Did your parents make you get the treatment?” Getting answers out of him was painfully frustrating.

“My parents. Sure glad they did though!”

“So you hid all this for you to find later? After you got the treatment?”

“Ah, I guess so. I sure was crazy back then!”

I feel like I’m talking to a child, having to ask every question clearly and make guesses to what I think happened. “Ryker,” I continue, “why did your parents make you get the treatment when you hated it?”

“Oh, I’m sure glad they made me! It helped me a lot. They knew it would so of course a parent is going to do the best for their kid.”

I shift through all the notes on his bed written to himself, giving up on getting answers out of him for now. I find the longest one and pick it up, hoping to find some sort of explanation to this story. As I begin reading, I can almost hear the urgency in his past voice as he tells his future self to “wake up,” and “fight it,” and “don’t become one of those mindless zombies, please.” I read through the whole letter, with Ryker sitting and waiting for me to finish patiently. I feel tears blur my vision, though I refuse to let any escape right now. I set the note down gently on his bed, my frustration for him now turned to heartbreak and sympathy after what I’ve read.

“You tried to kill yourself?” I ask quietly to him. Ryker nods with his smile, “Yeah, but I’m all better now!” At the age of 13, people have a right to refuse the treatment if their parents try to push them into getting it, unless there has been a suicide attempt. At that point, you no longer belong to yourself, and the Happy treatment is almost always the outcome of a failed suicide attempt.

“Ryker,” I whisper, and with heartbreak the only emotion running through my body right now, I lean in and hug him, knowing he won’t care about the personal space being broken, “I am so sorry.”

He laughs, and I may be only hearing what I want to hear, but I swear his laugh sounded a bit sadder this time. “Why are you sorry?” He asks while I still hug him, “I’m all better now!”

I sigh, feeling the brokenness in his body. He feels tired and tense, as if his body is begging for him to rest when his mind refuses.

I let go of him and study the emptiness in his eyes, searching for any remains of a human or emotion. It would be an awkward moment if he had the ability to feel awkward, I know.

As I see the hint of brokenness in his eyes, I think maybe we’re still not too different. I’m broken, and he’s broken. Though his mind doesn’t allow him to recognize it like mine does, I know he’s still broken and exhausted, I feel it.

I remember that I’ve thrown away my socially acceptable filter with Ryker, and though he won’t have a real response to anything I say, I speak for past Ryker, who needed it the most and it seems never got it.

“Ryker,” I begin with a heavy heart, “You’re broken, Man. I hear you repeat with that annoying, little, chirpy voice ‘I’m all better now!’ but I see you. I’m going to leave today and probably never hear from you again unless I invite myself over, and that’s not your fault. You’re not capable of it being your fault. I really don’t know what to say except I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. I’m sorry.” I stand up, leaving the notes and papers scattered on his bed, knowing he’ll probably leave them there for his parents to find and take away like how they took everything else in his room that could remind him of his past.

Ryker stands up with me, his smile still there, but his dark eyes telling me something different. I expect another empty, fluffy and chirpy response. I imagine them in my head being like Golly Gee, thanks, Cindy! or Wow! You’re the best! but it’s as if he listened to his notes saying to “fight it” and he, Ryker Terrafino, was able to talk, and not the treatment.

“Thank you,” he said. No exclamation point answer, no overdramatic cheerfulness, just genuine. He said more in those two words than he did in anything else he said to me today, and I appreciated it. It gave me hope that maybe there’s a piece of him left, a piece of his humanity and realness.

I smiled sadly at him, patting him on the back with a quiet “good luck” as I let myself out, leaving him to be alone again in a room supposedly as empty as his mind.

:) :) :)

When I made it home after my visit with Ryker, my phone buzzed in my pocket before I could make it out of the car. Zophie’s contact appeared on the screen, and butterflies filled my stomach. I wasn’t expecting to receive a text from her probably ever again. I opened the text and it read, “That note Eva wrote was for you. Do you want to read or should I just throw it away?”

My heart dropped. I completely forgot about the note Zophie found on Eva’s bed that was briefly mentioned in our chaotic phone call. After reading the notes Ryker had written to himself, I feel afraid of what Eva’s note may say. I feel a desperate desire to know why, to know what happened and what went wrong to cause Eva to do this, but at the same time I’d rather Zophie throw away the note and I never have to face Eva again. I’d rather not be thrown into a pool of depressing words and emotions. If Ryker’s notes made me feel that way, I can only imagine how I’d feel reading Eva’s.

I type out simply, “Throw it away,” but I can’t press send. I backspace everything, then type out “Send it,” and press send before I can change my mind. A few seconds later, images spam my phone with each page being sent through one picture at a time. It’s a long letter, something I wouldn’t think Eva would even be capable of doing so many months ago.

I set my phone down. It’s there for me if I ever want to read it, but I don’t feel like I can bring myself to right now, though I know I should read it before I’m forced to finally see Eva tomorrow. My mind has been constantly swirling in overthinking the past few days, wondering why. Why would she do this? What happened and why didn’t she talk to me? I hope the answers are in this note, but I can’t be sure. I know if I want to be sure, I have to read it. I lean my head back on the driver’s headrest in the car and let out a heavy, shaky sigh. “Fuck, Eva,” I whisper under my breath, “Why’d you have to do this to me?”

I opened my phone and began reading.

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